


Things that Change (and Things That Don't)

by widowbitesandhearingaids



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brief torture scene, Hand Jobs, M/M, NSFW, Suicide mention, angsty as hell because i am mean like that, other sexy times, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widowbitesandhearingaids/pseuds/widowbitesandhearingaids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bucky left for war and Steve never left at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things that Change (and Things That Don't)

**Author's Note:**

> Shrinkyclinks AU that stole my heart. I feel like everyone and their mother is writing this AU but I love it a lot so here. 
> 
> Also thank you so much to [ Vee](http://halloweeniebattles.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this. You're amazing and ily

_“Dear Mr. Rogers. We wish we were writing you with better news.”_ The first time he’d read the death notice, Steve hadn’t gotten past the second sentence. He’d known then, in his heart, he’d known that Bucky was gone, but he couldn’t bring himself to read the words.

It had been an entire day before Steve summoned the courage to read the rest of the letter. “ _Dear Mr. Rogers. We wish we were writing you with better news. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, of the 107 th, has been declared Missing In Action, Presumed Dead. We will not give up the search but you should make arrangements befitting a hero of this great nation. Condolences._”

Some fancy general had signed off on it, writing his signature with a flourish that made Steve hate him. Steve read the short letter once, twice, three times more before remembering that, technically, he isn’t family. These don’t go out to hidden lovers of soldiers. They go out to immediate family, girlfriends, and fiancés. It took him even longer to realize that Bucky must have done it on purpose, made sure that Steve was added to the list of people that would be informed in case he died. The thought made Steve clutch the letter to his chest and then, not for the first or last time, he cried.

That had been years ago. Years since the letter arrived, spelling out the death of the love of Steve’s life. Years since he stopped eating and sleeping for over a week, and had to be hospitalized. Years since the funeral, with the folded flag in Rebecca’s arms and Bucky’s sisters crying on their mother’s shoulder. Years since all the color leached out of Steve’s world, leaving only the barest shades of back and gray behind. It has been years since Steve died too, not in body but in every way that matters, killed by whatever took Bucky from this world and from him.

He can function a little more now. He eats. He sleeps. Sometimes he’ll even speak when he’s visiting his mother’s grave, but not much. He doesn’t draw anymore. His sketchbook, filled with portraits of Bucky or landscapes of the city that they both loved, sits abandoned in his apartment. Steve wanted to burn it, but couldn’t bring himself to. Bucky’s already dead, and ridding the world of those drawings would be like Steve had a personal hand in killing him once and for all. Steve’s a shade of his former self, and his former self wasn’t much to begin with. Skinny, with a mouth that never knew when to stay shut, and sharp fists to defend himself when someone inevitably decided to teach him some manners. Bucky was always the best parts of him. And now they’re gone. All gone. Just like he is. Bucky is dead. Bucky died in that _stupid_ war. He died scared and bloody and alone –

 _Steve should’ve been there with him_. He tried another half a dozen times to enlist after Bucky shipped off, all of his hope riding on some misguided idea that they’d find each-other again. Just once more time before the end. But no one would take him, and when the officials found out that he’d falsified his records, well, Steve’s lucky not to be in prison. They say that he’s lucky they won’t take him at all, but Steve would take a death with Bucky in the trenches over this half-life without him. His heart is gone. How long is he expected to remain on this wretched planet without it?

Still, the letter remains in his pocket wherever he goes, along with Bucky’s last gift to him: a watch with his picture hidden inside. “Something to remember me by, punk,” Bucky had said with a grin that was two shades sad. Steve had kissed him then, their last kiss, tasting of longing and loss and desperation already. Tasting like goodbye. Steve should have known it then. He’d read the casualty reports, and when Bucky had announced that he’d been conscripted, Steve should have known right then and there that neither of them was getting out of the trenches alive. But he’d been a fool, and he’d hoped and dreamed of their reunion, right until the morning when he received the letter. He should’ve known better. He _should_ know better. Better than to hope, even now. He shouldn’t keep the letter with him, he should’ve ripped it up. Bucky’s gone, and the death notice is just a painful reminder that he’s not coming back. But Steve’s never been good at sparing himself pain, so he keeps it with him always, and reads it nearly every day. It looks years old now, instead of months, unfolded and refolded so many times the crease is nearly part of the paper, and the ink is stained and runny in some places, from where Steve’s tears met the printed words. It’s in his pocket when he sees him.

Steve knows that Bucky is dead. He knows that MIA is just a fancy term for being dead in a ditch somewhere in Europe where the army can’t find you. He knows it. He does. But that doesn’t stop his traitorous mind from seeing Bucky’s ghost everywhere. In the supermarket, in the park, in the face of a hundred complete strangers. Every time, Steve’s heart leaps, somehow believing that the army was wrong, the letter was wrong, _they were all wrong_. Bucky isn’t dead, he’s here. He’s back in Brooklyn where he belongs, he’s safe and whole and coming home to Steve. Every time, as soon as he takes a closer look, that burst of hope shrivels and dies into something twisted and cold, settling in Steve’s chest like a dark weight. And it _hurts_. It hurts like losing Bucky all over again, and Steve quickly learns not to hope. He can’t keep doing this to himself or he’s going to go crazy. That doesn’t stop his heart from leaping into his throat when he sees a tall man standing on the other side of the street, cutting an impressive figure in a tight coat, despite the relative heat of the day. It’s the kind of silhouette that Steve would love to draw: Stark, striking…familiar? Steve blinks, recognizing Bucky anywhere, before he bites his lip and forces himself to look away. _It’s not Bucky you idiot_ , he tells himself furiously. The man has long hair anyhow, and Bucky always kept his neat and short. How many times has he been down this road already? It has to stop. But Steve still sneaks a sidelong glance at the man-who-is-not-Bucky, freezing dead in his tracks when he sees a heart wrenchingly beautiful face staring at him. Well, not at him, and not a stare. Just a glimpse of a face that Steve memorized years ago, when he was young and in love. Steve knows those eyes, and even as an artist he was never able to decide if they were blue or gray; he knows that aquiline, aristocratic nose; he knows those lips – he can still _taste_ those lips. It’s Bucky, it has to be. Steve knows his face better than he knows his own.

 _It’s not Bucky_ , the rational part of his mind warns. _You’re seeing what you want to see. It’s not Bucky, Bucky is dead, and you’re just going to hurt yourself again_. Honestly? Probably. But when Steve looks again to see that Bucky’s doppelgänger is disappearing down a narrow side street, he can’t help taking off after him.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts, trying to grab his attention. Something’s taken him over, something that feels dangerously like hope. The man doesn’t answer, forging forward. He moves quickly, purposefully, and Steve can’t keep up. His lungs have always been shit at being lungs, but he’s never – _never –_ hated it as much as he does at this precise moment. “Bucky!” Steve calls out again, coming to a shuddering halt at an intersection. He doesn’t know where the man has gone, and he needs a moment to catch his breath anyway. But Steve catches a flash of the black coat going into a building on his right and takes off, disregarding the searing pain building in his chest. It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters. “Bucky?” Steve says, his voice echoing off of the bare walls as he pushes into the old factory. It’s condemned, been abandoned for years, and for a moment Steve wonders it if it was just his imagination that led him in here.

Then he sees him. Steve feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he sees Bucky standing across from him – and it _is_ Bucky. But there’s no love in those blue-grey eyes, no joy at their reunion. Steve may recognize him, but Bucky doesn’t.

Steve just doesn’t see it until it’s too late. He pauses, confusion written all over his face, but Bucky is already moving. It’s a quick, predatory gait that Steve doesn’t remember; one moment they’re staring at one another from across the building and the very next, a hand is clasped around Steve’s throat, cold and unyielding. Steve gasps, seeing stars as his head is slammed against the rough brick wall behind him.

“B-Bucky?” Steve manages, forcing himself to look through the darkness. The pressure on his chest is expanding, lighting his lungs on fire. He can’t breathe; he’s having an asthma attack….He can’t _breathe_. “Bucky…stop…” The hand tightens on his neck, increasing the strangulation of his windpipe, and Steve arches his back, trying to get away from this glass-eyed Bucky no matter how wrong it feels. What’s going on with him? What’s wrong with his eyes? They’re empty…

Black spots start to crowd his vision and Steve tries to pull Bucky’s hand away from his throat, his fingers finding no purchase on the icy cold skin that doesn’t feel like skin at all. He kicks his legs uselessly, too far off the ground to do any good, and not strong enough for any of it to make a difference. Steve opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a hissing wheeze, and the pain in his chest turns from unbearable to agony. “Bucky…” Steve chokes, hanging onto consciousness by the thinnest of threads. “I – ” He wants to say that he loves him, he wants to beg him to stop, he wants to ask what’s _happened_ to him, but Steve can’t get his voice to work anymore. Steve closes his eyes, unable to bear looking at Bucky any longer, unable to look at his _eyes_ any longer. They’re not the eyes he fell in love with. They’re cold and indifferent and unyielding, staring right through Steve like he’s a nothing more than a bug to be swatted. Bucky doesn’t know him, and it’s like someone plunged their hand into his sternum and ripped out his heart. Steve knows pain. He’s been in it for most of his life. He doesn’t know how to live without it, he doesn’t know how to inhale without his chest twinging, he doesn’t know how to walk without his joints aching, he doesn’t know how to run without his lungs igniting. All of that he can live with; he _has_ lived with it. But this. Steve can’t live with this. So he closes his eyes. And he lets go.

He doesn’t feel the cold hand releasing him, doesn’t feel the air move around him as he falls. Steve doesn’t feel the bruising force of the arms that catch him before he can hit the ground. He doesn’t see the horrified look that crosses Bucky’s previously expressionless face, doesn’t see those eyes fill with pain and horror and remorse for just a moment before the blankness returns. Steve doesn’t or feel any of it. His whole world has narrowed to pain and the simple, Herculean effort of trying to breathe. Blind, deaf, and nerveless, Steve sucks in air, gasping and suffocating. It’s not enough. Everything he’s doing, fighting as hard as he can to live, to _breathe_ , it’s not working. Nothing he’s doing is working. _I’m going to die_. The thought knifes through the pain, a mental splash of ice-cold water. Steve’s had this thought before. More than anyone he knows – but usually in hospitals, wired up to beeping machines, with his mother or Bucky holding his hand and begging him to stay with them. It’s happened twice since Bucky “died.” Both times, Steve thought he was going to die alone in a hospital, and instead of fear or panic, all he could feel was relief. Relief and a sense of petty indignation when he inevitably woke up, like his chance to finally find peace had been ripped away from him.

But this time, the realization carries no relief, no peace, because Bucky isn’t waiting from him somewhere beyond this world. Bucky is here, Bucky is alive…. Bucky is killing him. _It’s not fair_ , Steve thinks desperately. It’s his last thought before everything fades into black nothingness. _I just got you back._

* * *

 

He doesn’t expect to wake up. Not from that kind of attack, not from the pain of losing Bucky again. Steve doesn’t expect to wake up.

But he does.

Steve opens his eyes slowly, his vision hazy as the rest of his senses filter back to him. He’s curled in on himself, a tiny ball of thin flesh and protruding bones. Steve focuses inward, checking himself to make sure that everything’s functioning okay – or as okay as it ever is. His breathing is raspy, but not painful; his heart is beating normally. His neck feels puffy and swollen, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he knows that there will finger-shaped bruises stamped into his skin by tomorrow, if they aren’t there already. Steve’s always bruised easy, which made hiding the evidence of fighting from his mother impossible.

Bucky – or this imitation of Bucky – is pacing against the north wall of the factory. There’s something stiff in the way he walks, something mechanical and unfamiliar that makes Steve’s skin crawl. He’s muttering to himself, half-sentences containing words that Steve can hardly make out. Some of them might even be in another language.

“Compromised…” Not-Bucky mumbles, holding his arms rigidly behind his back as he walks back and forth. “Not mission parameters… Compromised. Eliminate?” He reacts violently to that, stopping his pacing and slamming his fist into the wall hard enough to dent it. His skin glitters in the dim streetlight that filters in through the filthy windows, and Steve realizes that it’s not skin at all. It’s metal, some kind of metal glove.

No, not a glove. It’s his arm, a _metal_ arm. Steve’s breath comes quicker, remembering that hand clasped around his throat, and he gently reaches his own hand up, pressing his fingertips against the fresh bruises.

Bucky’s attention snaps to him. Steve quickly retracts his hand and forces himself to sit up, using the wall as support. He doesn’t flinch, refuses to look away, even though this Bucky scares the hell out of him. Even though he feels like he’s shattering into a thousand pieces. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, and Steve doesn’t know if Bucky remembers his name anyway. He didn’t respond to it before. The shock of seeing him again isn’t wearing off – in fact, Steve is still reeling – but now, looking at Bucky without the film of surprise over his eyes, Steve can see how much he has changed. It’s not just the emptiness of his eyes or the long, lank hair. Bucky looks sick. There’s hollowness in his cheeks and a sallow quality to his skin that Steve has never seen on his face before. He looks like he hasn’t eaten or slept properly in weeks. It’s like there’s someone wholly new peering at Steve through Bucky’s eyes. Someone he’s never seen before, someone dark and foreign.

Steve doesn’t move a muscle for several long minutes, afraid to startle Bucky into violence again. His head is cocked at a strange angle, as if sizing Steve up, but there’s still nothing akin to recognition anywhere on his face. Part of Steve wants to run, or to try at the very least. Leap to his feet and make a break for it, then forget this ever happened. Maybe it’s a dream. Maybe he had an asthma attack and this is all a hallucination and he’s in a hospital, hooked up to IVs and wires and none of it is real. Even as he thinks it, Steve knows it can’t be true. He’s had plenty of medically induced dreams before, and they’re nothing like this. Not even his worst nightmares about Bucky have come close to the reality in front of him. And the moment the thought of running takes hold in his mind, his treacherous body sabotages it, sending him into a fit of coughing. Steve nearly falls over again, clutching at his chest as his lungs try to work their way up his throat. Heavy footsteps rush towards him before coming to a sharp halt just out of arm’s reach. Steve staggers to his feet, holding his hand out to defend himself. As if he’s in any shape to fend off another attack. Something flashes in Bucky’s ice-blue eyes but Steve succumbs to another bout of coughing before he can look closer.

“Breathe.” Steve could cry, hearing the voice that is undoubtedly Bucky’s for the first time in nearly two years. It’s rougher than he remembers, as if from disuse, but it’s him. It’s him for sure. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” He says the words robotically, like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s saying, just going along with muscle memory. It makes sense. Bucky used to help Steve through attacks regularly, rubbing soothing circles into his back and mumbling nonsense into his ear until he could sit up on his own. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can almost make himself believe that he sees Bucky’s hand twitch, like remembers the motion that goes along with these words. “Who are you?” Bucky asks a few minutes after the coughing subsides and Steve’s breathing becomes regular again. He crouches down so that they’re eye-to-eye, but he’s far enough that Steve wouldn’t be able to reach out and touch him. And he wants to, God, he wants to. Even with the fear of violence still weighing heavily on his mind, all Steve wants to do is run his hand over Bucky’s face, letting himself remap the contours that he’s forgotten despite his best efforts not to.

“You don’t…you don’t remember my name?” Steve asks, trying not to sound like a hurt little boy and failing miserably.

“The Asset remembers you,” Bucky grunts. “Remember – ” He stops short, trailing off and looking at Steve with thinly veiled frustration. “The Asset…not mission parameters. New mission? Old mission?” He’s speaking to himself more than Steve now, lapsing into the broken half-formed phrases that Steve overheard when he first woke up. But who’s the Asset? _What_ is the Asset? And what does it have to do with Bucky not remembering him?

“I’m Steve,” Steve supplies when there’s a break in Bucky’s babbling.

“Steve,” Bucky repeats, the name sounding strange in his mouth. The tears in Steve’s eyes crowd close, threatening to spill. He bites his lip, trying desperately to hold them back. “Steve. Override.” Steve doesn’t know what that means, but Bucky is looking at him, really _looking_ at him for the first time, so he doesn’t dare speak for fear of shattering the spell. “New mission, new parameters: _Steve_. Override.” Bucky’s hand, the metal one, reaches for Steve and he can’t help but flinch backwards, wary of those silvery fingers and the damage they can do. Bucky freezes, his eyes scanning over Steve’s face, analyzing his expression. Steve waits with baited breath, as still as he can, wanting to hold him, terrified to move. The bruises on his neck pulse, a reminder.

Something shifts all of a sudden, and the blankness returns, like pulling curtains behind his eyes. He stands abruptly, reacting to something that Steve can't hear. Any kind of progress they've made vanishes in an instant. The confusion, the hesitation, they're both gone, replaced once again with the stance of a predator in Bucky's body. 

"What is it?" Steve can't help but ask, but wishes he hadn't as Bucky's attention snaps back to him. "Bucky...what's going on?" 

"Who the hell is Bucky?" He asks and Steve feels something inside of him break with a painful, splintering crack. Bucky advances on him with purposeful steps, and Steve presses himself against the wall, making himself as small as possible.

"Bucky, please," Steve says, hating how small his voice is. Before Bucky can get too close, the door flies open with a bang that makes Steve and Bucky jump together. Several men, dressed in head to toe black, burst into the factory. They're bristling with weapons and Steve's last hope that this might be a dream vanishes as Bucky shoves him back against the wall, pulling an enormous gun off of his shoulder that Steve hasn't even noticed until now. How hasn't he noticed? It's huge. 

"Asset!" one of the men barks. "Kill the civilian and fall in." Steve's blood goes cold. _He's talking about me_ , he thinks numbly. Bucky doesn't move, and the men spread out, all of them aiming their weapons at him. Bucky shifts his stance so that he's holding the gun with one hand, the other thrown wide. He's caging Steve in, making it impossible for him to make a run for it, but also limiting their access to him. "Asset!" the man says again. "Comply. Disobedience will be punished." There's something in his tone that makes Steve's previously frozen blood boil, and Bucky winces just the tiniest bit. 

They're the ones, Steve realizes. They're the ones who did this to him. Who changed him into...whatever he is now. Steve could kill them for it. Then Bucky moves and the fear comes rushing back as Steve considers that he very well might do what they say.

"Asset! Kill the civilian and submit to reprogramming," the man shouts. 

"Fuck that," Steve snarls. “You’re not taking him back!” Bucky seems surprised by his outburst, but there's no time to question it. In the time it take him to take a breath, one of the men in black fires and Bucky returns in kind. The man drops like his strings have been cut, and the room erupts with gunfire. Steve closes his eyes, flattening himself against Bucky's back and praying to whoever might be listening for some kind of clemency. The sudden silence seems louder than the gunshots and it arises just as quickly. Steve forces his eyes open as Bucky’s comforting weight vanishes. They’re dead, all of them but the leader, the one telling Bucky to submit. He’s collapsed on himself, bleeding heavily from a wound on his leg. Bucky prowls towards him without a word.

“Asset – ” The man tries before Bucky jams the long barrel of his gun against his forehead.

“New mission,” Bucky growls.

“Bucky – ” Steve whispers but any words he might have said are drowned out by a single, ringing gunshot that echoes against the walls. “Oh my God,” Steve gasps, seeing the back of the man’s head paint the concrete floor. “Oh my _God_.” Bucky doesn’t look at him, but not out of shame. He’s talking to himself again.

“Casualties, six.” Bucky mutters. “No civilians.”

“Jesus _fuck,_ Bucky!” Steve shouts, staring at the bodies littering the ground. He feels like he might throw up, his empty stomach roiling.

“More are coming,” Bucky says, turning back to him. “We need to fall back.”

“I’m not – ” Steve says, his breath coming in short gasps as adrenaline buzzes through his blood like poison. “I’m not going anywhere.” The ‘ _with you’_ goes unspoken, but it still cuts him up inside.

"New mission.” Bucky says again, not hearing Steve’s words, and he pulls a long syringe out of one of his many pockets. Steve's eyes widen and his heart trips in his chest. 

Steve darts to the side in a sad attempt at escape, somehow managing to avoid the bodies littering the ground as he streaks out the door. He even gets a block away before Bucky catches up to him, pressing his hand over Steve’s mouth and pulling him into a back alley. Steve tries to scream, but no sound escapes.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself,” Bucky says sternly, pressing his metal arm against Steve’s neck. Steve knows that Bucky is more than capable of taking him out if he threatens this new mission of his, so he resolves to stay quiet. There will be another chance. Steve will find another way. “Acknowledge.” Steve nods, once, slowly, and Bucky removes his hand from his mouth.

“Let me go Bucky,” Steve pleads, seeing one hand fish out the syringe again. “Bucky, please.” Steve tries to swat the needle away but Bucky neatly pins his arms by his sides with just a small shift in his position. "Bucky - " Steve says breathlessly, feeling his pulse start to race. He winces at the pressure on the side of his neck, feeling his limbs grow heavy almost instantly. "No..." He slurs and the world tilts as Bucky lays him on his back, standing over him like a shadow. 

"New mission," Bucky says again, but his voice is so far away that Steve could be imagining it. "Protect Steve."

* * *

 

This time when Steve wakes, he can feel fingers stroking his hair. Steve inches closer, recognizing the touch, yearning for it. For a moment, he doesn’t remember. Not the war, the death notice, the abduction, none of it. All he knows is that Bucky is close, and Steve never wants him to leave again.

Then he _does_ remember, and Steve jerks awake. The fingers disappear, like they’d never been there at all, but Bucky is watching him when Steve opens his eyes. Staring, actually. Unabashedly staring at him like he owns the secrets to the goddamn universe, and maybe he does, because Bucky doesn’t know his own name but he knows Steve.

“Who are you?” Steve asks, changing tactics from before, and absently noticing that he’s not on the floor this time. Not on bed, either, but some kind of cot. The room is small, but not claustrophobic, and the windows are tinted so that he can’t see outside.

“The Asset,” Bucky replies without hesitation.

“Who is the Asset?” Steve asks. Bucky seems confused by the question, his eyebrows knitting together.

“The Asset.”

“What is the Asset?” Steve asks.

“The fist of HYDRA.” Jesus. This, at least, Steve recognizes. He’s been following the war since Bucky got drafted, and while the mentions of HYDRA have been few and far between, they’re there. Some kind of Nazi cult that worships their leader like he’s a God. Some people think they’re worse than the Nazis themselves, and looking at what they’ve done to Bucky, Steve can’t help but agree.

“How…” Steve falters, desperately wanting to ask the question but almost afraid to ask. “How did you become the Asset?” The furrow deepens.

“The Asset has always been.” Steve chokes down the sob that threatens to suffocate him. There’s been a lot of that in the last – well, he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he happened to see Bucky in the street. It might be a day, a week, only a few hours, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

“That’s not true,” Steve says softly, his voice just audible.

“Explain.”

“You’re not the Asset. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You…you were born in Brooklyn, New York and you, you – ” _You’re my best friend. You’re the love of my life. You’re Bucky, you’re Bucky, you’re_ my _Bucky_.

“Buchanan,” Bucky repeats back slowly, eyes fixed on Steve’s face.

“You always hated it,” Steve supplies. “Your mom, she had a thing for history.”

“Bucky.” Steve freezes as the word passes his lips without Steve’s prompting. “The Asset…is Bucky?” It’s a question.

“You’re Bucky,” Steve says. “You’re Bucky, and I’m Steve. You know me.”

“The Asset remembers you. You are important.” Bucky says, half an answer. It’s better than nothing.

“Bucky, you need to take me home,” Steve says gently. “I’m not safe here.”

“No,” Bucky agrees. “You’re not. This doesn’t follow new mission parameters.”

“Then what _is_ the mission?” Steve asks. “Bucky, what is the mission?”

“The mission. The _oldest_ mission.” Bucky says emphatically. “Protect Steve Rogers.” The oldest mission, that sounds about right. Ever since they were kids, and Bucky pulled the very first bully off of Steve, Bucky’s always been in his corner. Following him into fights, finishing them if it was necessary.

_“Stay down punk!” The bullies are three times his size, but Steve’s never given a shit about size. He’ll take one of them with a surprise attack before the others beat him senseless. It’s not as if he hasn’t taken a beaten before. He’ll be hurt, but he’ll be fine._

_“Piss off,” Steve hisses, surging to his feet. His sharp little fists slam into the biggest boy’s nose, hard enough to make it snap to the side. Blood flows freely, painting the bottom half of his face bright red, and the older boy swears before swinging at Steve. He lands two punches, and one of the other slams his fist into Steve’s midsection, sending him sprawling back to the ground. Steve coughs as a boot catches him in the stomach, unable to help the pained noise that escapes._

_“Three on one,” a new voice says, entering the fray. A voice filled with cool arrogance and thinly veiled anger. “That don’t seem fair to me.” Steve never knew how Bucky did it, chasing those three away from him, but he did. And he did it with a smile. That smile chafed at Steve at first; he felt like it was mocking him for not being strong enough to fight his own battles. It would be years before he came to realize that it was a promise. A promise of protection and love._

_“I could’ve taken them,” Steve insists, ignoring the hand outstretched to help him to his feet._

_“You were getting the shit beat outta ya,” Bucky says. It’s true, but Steve’s stubborn. His ma says he’s got the thickest skull in Brooklyn. It’s probably true._

_“Didn’t need your help,” Steve says, brushing him off. Even as a child, Bucky is beautiful. Perfectly groomed dark hair, those_ eyes _, and the confidence of a boy twice his age. Everyone always says that he’ll be a real ladykiller when he grows up. “Look out for that Barnes boy,” parents say to themselves. “He’ll steal your daughters right out of their beds.” Too bad Bucky was never all that interested in girls. Something that Steve would soon find out, but was dangerous to say aloud. Not in their neighborhood. Not in the thirties._

_“Ya know?” Bucky says. “I don’ think you did. You’re crazy, kid. I like you.” Bucky slings his arm around Steve’s thin shoulders and tucks him in close. Even then, it feels like home. “Name’s James. James Buchanan Barnes.”_

_“Buchanan?” Steve smirks. “Jesus, what a name.”_

_“You got a better one?”_

_“Than Buchanan?” Steve says, grinning. “Hell,_ Bucky _, is better than Buchanan.”_

_“Bucky,” Bucky says, rolling the new name around in his mouth for the first time. “I like it.”_

That had been the beginning, but not the end.

Bucky’s words ring in Steve’s ears like the sounding of a gong. Protecting Steve has always been Bucky’s mission, ever since they were kids and somehow _that’s_ what he remembers. Steve bites his lip, unable to keep the tears back any longer. They – that man, whoever did this to Bucky – they took everything from him. His name, his life. His arm. But they didn’t take away that impulse, the one that drove him to pull those bullies off of Steve when they were kids. They took _everything_ , but they couldn’t take that.

A hand, warm and human, cups the side of Steve’s face and Steve leans into the touch. Bucky doesn’t flinch away, but he doesn’t seem to be fully aware of what’s happening either. His gaze shifts between his own hand and Steve’s face.

“Are you injured?” Bucky asks finally. “What is causing this?” His voice sounds strange, like he isn’t used to asking questions. Steve doesn’t answer, can’t bring himself to, and Bucky’s hand slowly retracts. Steve shifts uncomfortably, mourning its loss, but Bucky disappears before Steve can utter a word. The door _clicks_ shut behind him, and Steve doesn’t have to get up to know that it’s locked. But that doesn’t stop him. When he can manage it, Steve shuffles to his feet and tries the door, the blacked-out windows, every escape route he can think of. Nothing works, and he didn’t expect them to. Whoever Bucky is now, he’s done this kind of thing before. He’s the arm of a terrorist organization; he’s probably done worse. Steve shudders and shakes his head, forcing those thoughts to the back of his mind. He won’t think about it. He won’t allow himself to.

And even if he were to escape, where would he go? Bucky’s different now, but it’s still Bucky, and the world holds nothing for Steve without him.

“Food,” Bucky says curtly when he returns, passing Steve a steaming box of something or other. He stares expectantly as Steve opens the box and examines the contents before pushing it away.

“I can’t eat it, I’m sorry” he says softly. Bucky frowns. “I’m allergic.”

“Allergic?” Bucky repeats once before his eyes fly wide. He kicks the box across the room, pulling a handgun out of his jacket and shooting it three times. “ _Jesus Christ_ , Bucky!” Steve shouts, jumping to his feet and flattening himself against the wall. “Don’t _do_ that. Bucky, please, put the gun away,” he says when Bucky does nothing. “Please. You’re more likely to hurt me with that than you are with food.”

“That would constitute failure,” Bucky says. “The Asset does not fail.”

“Bucky – ”

“The Asset does not fail.” Bucky says again, firmer this time. He won’t speak after that. Steve tries to ask him questions, tells him that it isn’t his fault – why would he remember Steve’s allergies when he can’t even remember his own name? – but Bucky seems to hear none of it.

They move the next morning. Somehow, Steve managed to fall asleep against the brick wall, and wakes up on the cot. He doesn’t remember Bucky moving him, but the thought of those arms wrapped around him makes Steve shiver. He doesn’t know if they’re the good or bad kind.

“We need to go,” Bucky says, already awake and watchful when Steve wakes up. “Come here.”

“Don’t,” Steve says when Bucky takes out the needle again. “Let me stay awake.”

“It’s not safe,” Bucky says, jabbing the needle into his arm despite his protestations. “You’re not safe out there.”

That’s how it goes. They never stay in one place for more than a day or so, and Steve starts to lose track of how many places they go. They all look the same anyway. Four stone walls, a cot. None of the men in black have caught up to them yet, but Bucky keeps them moving, always insisting that they’re coming. Steve wonders if they’re just a figment of his fractured imagination. But Bucky won’t answer when he asks. In fact, he doesn’t speak much at all, not after that first say. He responds to his name now, but never refers to himself by it, and he barely refers to Steve by name at all. Most of the talking he does, if any, is muttering to himself about the mission, or Steve’s safety. Steve’s stopped trying to initiate conversation; it just makes him sad now, watching the confusion and frustration on Bucky’s face as he tries to recall things that don’t exist in his splintered mind anymore. God. Steve used to think that he was a shade of his formal self, but seeing Bucky, this half-formed, half-silent Bucky, Steve realizes how wrong he was. Steve was never a shade. But Bucky…Bucky is one.

One of their longest conversations was when Bucky made Steve write down everything that he’s allergic to, and now makes sure that anything he brings back is safe. He also insists that Steve eat everything. Somehow, he also came up with a respirator for Steve to use in case his asthma kicks in again, not that it’s had a chance. Bucky doesn’t let Steve go to any new safehouses of his own volition; he’s drugged every time they move. It’s got to be doing something to his immune system, but Steve can’t bring himself to care anymore.

Bucky doesn’t eat, at least not where Steve can see. He doesn’t seem to sleep either; he’s always awake before Steve falls asleep and awake when he wakes up. Surely he must sleep – they’ve been together for nearly two weeks. No one can stay awake for that long. Sometimes, Steve will pretend to be asleep for longer than he is, watching Bucky through cracked lids. Most of the time he just stands by the door, watching it with a vigilant eye, but sometimes when Steve wakes up early, he’ll catch Bucky doing pushups. And with his shirt off, metal hand hidden by the rest of his body, and his hair tied back, Steve can almost imagine that it’s his Bucky, the old Bucky. But no matter how hard he tries to regulate his breathing, Bucky always knows when he wakes up. Of course he knows. Bucky always used to know back then too. They were some of the best mornings of his life, waking up with Bucky’s arm thrown over his shoulders, or pulling him in close to his chest.

_“Mmm,” Bucky murmurs, his eyes fluttering open and a sleepy smile curling his lips up in the corners. “Y’look like an angel, Stevie. You’re the artist, but th’ lighting gives you a halo.” Steve blushes, pressing a chaste kiss against Bucky’s upturned lips._

_“Quit talkin’ crazy,” Steve mumbles, snuggling closer._

_“Ain’t crazy, sweetheart,” Bucky replies, drawing Steve in. “S’the truth.” Steve just hums, rolling his eyes. They don’t get many mornings like this. It’s too dangerous, for both of them. But God, Steve could die happy right now, curled up next to him. It’s all he’s ever wanted._

_“C’mere,” Steve says finally, opening his eyes again and pulling Bucky’s face to meet his. The kiss isn’t soft and sleepy anymore, it’s warm and_ wanting _, and it’s all Bucky. “You wanna?” Steve mumbles against Bucky’s smiling mouth. Bucky doesn’t answer, just makes a sound low in his throat and presses his lips harder against Steve’s. And if his erection, quickly growing between their entwined bodies, is any indication, he wants to. Steve grins, trailing hot, openmouthed kisses down Bucky’s neck, sucking hard on his clavicle. Steve knows by now where he’s allowed to make marks and where he’s not. But he can’t help it sometimes. Bucky is so good and so warm and_ all his _. He wants the whole world to know it, but the bruises will suffice for now. Bucky groans, canting his hips up, and Steve exhales hard, feeling Bucky’s cock rub against his own._

 _“Someone’s eager,” Steve teases, bringing his mouth back up to tug on Bucky’s earlobe with his teeth. Bucky swears softly, and then it’s Steve’s turn to gasp as Bucky’s hand wraps around both of their cocks together, jerking them off in tandem. “Bucky,” Steve manages, his name a short, broken off thing. He thrusts his narrow hips against Bucky’s hand, seeking the friction. How quickly he goes from teasing to teased, Steve thinks as Bucky’s hand vanishes and he practically_ whines _at the loss._

_“Careful sweetheart,” Bucky says, his head under the covers. “Wouldn’t want to come off too eager.”_

_“Oh shut up and – ahh,” Steve trails off, feeling Bucky take him into his mouth. “Jesus Christ Bucky,” he moans, fisting his hands in Bucky’s hair as the other boy runs his tongue over Steve’s whole cock. He licks at him a little, sucking at Steve’s cockhead before blowing out his cheeks and taking all of him at once. Steve murmurs soft cries of ecstasy, thrusting his hips into Bucky’s hot, wet mouth. Bucky makes a pleased noise, taking all of him without complaint. “Close, Buck,” Steve says, feeling the climax coiling in his stomach. Bucky sucks him down once more before trailing back up to Steve’s mouth, pressing kisses to his hips, his stomach, his chest, before pressing his lips to Steve’s._

_“Come with me,” Bucky murmurs, holding their cocks together. “M’close too.” Steve presses his hand against Bucky’s and they move together, getting off together, and finally they both come. Steve gasps Bucky’s name and Bucky hisses his, both swallowing down the words of the other. Steve shudders as all of his muscles relax at once, and then he slumps against Bucky again, ignoring the mess they’ve made of one another. It can wait. Bucky can’t._

_“I love you,” Steve says._

_“I love you too, you stupid punk,” Bucky says, holding him close and pressing a kiss to Steve’s forehead. “What’s that I always tell you?” he asks, brushing Steve’s sandy hair off of his forehead._

_“Till the end of the line,” Steve says, reciting the words he knows by heart, the words Bucky has said a hundred times, and the first ‘I love you’ Steve ever wanted._

_“Till the end of the line,” Bucky agrees._

Now, waking up to another one of Bucky’s safehouses, cold and alone, Steve wonders if this is the end that he envisioned.

Steve starts to think that they’ll go one like this forever, jumping from place to place, and he’ll never see the sky again. Bucky makes no indication of stopping anytime soon, and Steve begins to make plans to escape. He’s got to get out, he’s got to get help – for him _and_ Bucky. There’s got to be someone who can break through whatever HYDRA has done to him.

He almost makes it. Three safehouses ago, Steve was lucky enough to come across a paper clip that he’s kept stored on his person ever since. As soon as he has the chance, Steve waits for Bucky to leave to pick up more supplies, and sets to picking the lock. Steve isn’t exactly a career criminal, but he’s pulled enough pranks in his lifetime to know how to break into a building. Or out of one, in this case. It takes a few minutes of time he isn’t sure he has, but eventually the lock pops open. Steve’s heart leaps and he darts out the door.

Into traffic. Steve swears and leaps out of the way as a car screams past the spot where he’d been standing just a moment earlier. He squints against the midday sun, wondering how the hell he didn’t hear the sounds of a city outside. Steve’s thought this whole time that they’ve been traveling to old, abandoned buildings out in the country, not hiding in the middle of a metropolitan area. It’s not New York City, that’s for damn sure, but a city is a city, and as soon as he gets over his shock, Steve takes off. He winds through the unfamiliar streets, losing himself in the noise and bustle. He slips between other pedestrians, not knowing where he’s going but knowing that he’s got to get there quickly.

Steve’s grand escape lasts all of three hours. Three hours of running through the city, not allowing himself to stop, before he feels a familiar cold hand clamp down on his elbow and drag him out of sight.

“What are you doing?” Bucky hisses, his voice low with anger. “This isn’t safe.” Safe. Steve’s coming to hate that word.

“Hey,” a new voice says, and Steve’s head snaps to the side. His eyes fall on a man at the mouth at the alley, glaring at Bucky. “Buddy. This guy bothering you?” Steve opens his mouth, not exactly knowing what will come out, whether he’ll call for help or tell the stranger to walk on, but Bucky’s hot breath is at his ear before he can say a word.

“Get him to leave, or he dies.” Steve’s heart skips in his chest. Bucky isn’t bluffing. Steve has seen what he can do firsthand; he’ll kill the stranger without a second thought.

 “We’re good,” Steve says. The man doesn’t look convinced and edges closer, watching them closely. “Don’t!” Steve whispers, feeling Bucky’s hand go to his gun. One of many, as Steve has seen firsthand. Winging up a quick prayer that Bucky won’t see it as an attack, Steve pulls his face down to meet his. Bucky freezes up and Steve’s half certain that he’s going to get shot, but after a moment, Bucky starts kissing him _back_. Steve gasps a little, surprised by the fervor with which Bucky kisses him. It’s almost like they’re _themselves again_. With Bucky’s lips on his, kissing him like he’s been dying for it, Steve can almost believe that this has all been a bad dream.

“Fuckin’ fairies!” the stranger shouts, and Bucky breaks the kiss, turning towards the mouth of the alley with murder in his eyes. That at least, stayed the same. Once, when they’d been feeling bold, Steve and Bucky had risked kissing in the daylight, and they’d been caught by a random passerby. He’d called them fairies too, and Bucky’s eyes had gone dead and cold. Steve can remember being terrified, in that moment, that Bucky was going to kill him. But Steve had led him away, and they’d both been more careful.

“No!” Steve says, grabbing Bucky’s arm. The metal whirrs under his fingertips and Steve gasps when Bucky shoves him roughly to the side, his head hitting the brick wall with a sickening _crack_. There’s a pause that feels like an eternity, and then Bucky turns to look at Steve, horror shining in those gray-blue eyes. Slowly, Steve raises his hand to the back of his head, his fingers coming away bloody. “Shit,” he mumbles. His vision starts to swim, but Steve fights against the nausea rising in his throat like a black tide. He’s spent too much time unconscious already; he refuses to pass out over a little knock on the head. Besides, he’s taken worse from the jackasses in the old neighborhood – Steve can handle this.

“Failure,” Bucky mutters, the man in the alley forgotten completely. Something in his eyes changes, the blankness giving way to something new. Something very young and positively terrified.

“What?” Steve asks, squinting at him.

“The Asset has failed. You are injured by its hand. The Asset has failed.” Steve clenches his jaw, hating how Bucky never refers to himself in the first person, only as ‘The Asset’ or ‘it’ and feels a fiery stab of rage at the people who did this to him.

“Cut it out, Buck,” Steve snaps, still holding his hand to his head. “Just patch me up and I’ll be fine. S’a scratch is all. Nothing to worry about.” Bucky doesn’t look like he believes it, but the fear seems to fade somewhat. He’s expecting _punishment_ , Steve realizes with a jolt. He thinks he failed, so he’s expecting Steve to _hurt_ him. “Hey,” Steve says, pressing his palm against Bucky’s cheek. Bucky freezes, as if bracing for a blow, and Steve feels another flash of violent anger. In an instant, Steve forgets why he was trying to escape in the first place. How on earth could he leave Bucky when he’s been this broken? What the hell was he thinking? “Bucky, look at me. You didn’t fail. I’m okay. I’m safe.”

“The Asset injured you,” Bucky repeats. His voice is small. Steve wants to pull him into his arms, to kiss him until he remembers _everything_ , but he settles for a bracing smile.

 “It was an accident, Bucky.” Steve says, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s and forcing himself to stand without swaying. His head really does hurt. “I’ll live, I promise. C’mon.” Steve can’t believe that he’s the one comforting Bucky, leading him back to the safehouse that he’d broken out of just a few hours before, but here he is. He’ll figure something out. Bucky’s taken care of him his whole life; it’s high time Steve returned the favor. But he holds his hand up when Bucky reaches for a syringe.

“No,” Steve says. “Bucky. No. If you knock me out with that stuff again, you _will_ be hurting me, do you understand?” Bucky’s face pales and he nods slowly, withdrawing the needle and putting it away.

“No more drugs,” Bucky says.

“No more drugs,” Steve agrees.

Unfortunately, it’s all he can to do keep from passing out as they make the trek back to the safehouse. Bucky walks in silence, not responding to any of Steve’s attempts at making conversation. When they finally get back, Steve settles onto his cot without complaint, letting Bucky bandage the back of his head. He must look ridiculous, with the gauze wrapping over his forehead, tangling with his blonde bangs.

“Bet I’m a sight, ain’t I?” Steve says, making a brave attempt at humor. Bucky frowns at him, fiddling with the bandage roll in his hands.

“You…” he trails off, the frown deepening. “This is familiar.” It should be. Bucky used to patch Steve up after scraps, trying to minimize the damage so that his ma wouldn’t worry. And Steve had had his fair share of head injuries, too. Bucky used to say that they scrambled his brains. “Why else would you be shackin’ up with a dope like me? How else can you explain me getting’ so lucky?” he’d joke. And Steve would roll his eyes, gazing into that heart-wrenchingly beautiful face, and think that _he’s_ that’sthe lucky one. “You are – were – injured often?”

“That’s an understatement,” Steve says. “I used to get the shit beat out of me at least once a week.” Bucky’s face tightens and anger flares behind his eyes before it vanishes the next second. “Don’ like bullies, never did.”

“Why not run?” Bucky asks. Steve shoots him a sidelong look and tries not to wince as a pain rips through his skull. He doesn’t have a concussion, Bucky already made sure, but it still hurts like hell. “You are an inferior opponent. Why not run?”

“Well thanks for that,” Steve says drily. Bucky doesn’t seem to register the sarcasm and Steve chews on his lip, trying to come up with an answer. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about running before. Cutting his losses when it became painfully obvious that he wasn’t going to win a fight – which was always. “Because once you start, you can’t stop,” he says eventually. “As soon as you start running…they’ll never let you stop.”

“So you fight. Fought.”

“Still fighin’ Bucky,” Steve says. “Still fightin’.” They both lapse into uncomfortable silence after that, and eventually, Bucky lays his hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Sleep,” he says gently. “You need to heal.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Steve says for what feels like the thousandth time. “I’m fine.”

* * *

 

He’s not. It’s not the first time Steve’s body has made him a liar, but he can’t remember ever resenting it this much. He doesn’t remember waking up, but suddenly there’s pressure on his head like something is trying to split his skull from the inside. Steve makes a sharp, wounded noise, curling in on himself and pressing his hands against his ears like it’ll make some kind of difference. He’s vaguely aware of cold hands on his skin, but just barely. Time stops – or maybe it runs faster. Steve has no idea. He just knows that he _hurts_. Everywhere. Not just in his head. His lungs are burning, his chest aches, his stomach is twisted into knots that would put any sailor to shame. God, it feels like he’s dying. Once, someone joked that, being as sick as he is, he must get used to feeling the Grim Reaper breathing down his neck. Steve had laughed it off, but the answer is no. Despite how many close calls he’s had – and there have been so, so many – Steve’s only ever been prepared one time. Only once was he ready to die. And that time, he hadn’t.

Steve doesn’t know how long it lasts, the fever. He’s not aware of much, except for the pain, an occasional cool touch, and flashes of gray blue that are more full of hurt than anything his body is doing to him. Sometimes, a voice breaks through the shrieking that only he can hear, a familiar, wounded voice that makes Steve want to curl up into a ball and never move again.

When he finally comes to, Steve doesn’t remember where he is. But he knows the arms holding him, recognizes the pulse that beats fast and strong under his ear. Steve makes a small noise, smacking his dry lips together. He opens his eyes slowly, feeling like he might rip the skin straight off of his eyelids. He smiles blearily, seeing Bucky’s face hovering above his. Of course Bucky is with him, Bucky always takes care of him, he’ll always be there to take care of him. But the smile fades as Steve’s gaze falls to Bucky’s arm, seeing the harsh metal where soft skin should be, and everything floods back to him.

“How long was I out?” Steve mumbles, his voice a husky rasp.

“Four days,” Bucky replies. Steve shifts a little, trying to extricate himself from Bucky’s tight embrace. He can’t stand the familiarity of it, how _right_ it feels. He can’t allow himself to get used to this, because he knows that this isn’t his Bucky, not anymore. It’s HYDRA’s. And now he holds him out of necessity, to accomplish his mission. It’s not from a place of love and Steve doesn’t know if he can take it. “Here,” Bucky says, handing Steve a water bottle. “You’re dehydrated.” Steve accepts the water gratefully, drinking almost all of it in one go and nearly choking for his efforts.

“That was a bad one, huh?” Steve asks. His voice almost sounds normal again. Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and he nods.

“Very bad. Don’t do it again.” Steve gives a weak smile in reply, but he can’t help but help hear Bucky saying something similar, not five years ago.

_Steve’s as sick as he’s ever been, sick enough that his ma and Bucky have been told to say their goodbyes and to start making arrangements. Steve may be unconscious, but he twitches as Bucky explodes, telling the doctor exactly where he can stick his goddamn arrangements, because “that skinny sonuvabitch is not dyin’ tonight!” Neither of them leave his bedside that night, and long after Steve’s mother has fallen asleep, Bucky is wide awake, whispering in Steve’s ear. Threats, promises, sacred vows, words of love, anything to get him to wake up again. And finally, Steve does._

_"You stupid fucking punk,” Bucky whispers, dusting Steve’s face with kisses. Steve has enough presence of mind to smile up at him, and scoot over in the bed so Bucky can squeeze in next to him. Steve may be outright gaunt, but Bucky’s thin too, and they both fit easily. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, you hear me? Don’t do it again.” Steve nods sleepily, snuggling into Bucky’s chest and loving how perfectly he fits._

_“I’ll try my best,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s shirt._

_"You’d better,” Bucky replies, kissing the top of his head. “Love you Stevie.”_

_“Love you too, Buck.”_

“I’ll try,” Steve answers finally, forcing himself back to the present. “Ow,” he complains, his whole body aching as he sits up. They’re in the same safehouse as before – obviously Steve’s been too sick to move safely. “We gotta go, don’t we?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. They are getting close. But the Asset could not risk injuring you further,” Bucky says matter-of-factly.

“Then we better get going,” Steve says. Bucky lurches to his feet as Steve struggles to stand, laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder to push him back down.

“You can’t travel, not like this,” Bucky insists and Steve feels a stab of aggravation.

“How the fuck would you know?” Steve snaps. Bucky starts at his tone, giving Steve a strange look.

“You – ”

"You don’t know me anymore, Bucky,” Steve says, daring him to disagree. “I’m just a half-remembered mission to you. _You don’t know me_.” Steve turns away, ignoring the guilt at Bucky’s hurt expression. He hobbles halfway across the small room before Bucky speaks again.

“Your mother’s name was Sarah,” Bucky says softly. So softly that Steve can’t be sure that he’s heard correctly, but the words still stop him in his tracks. “You used to put newspaper in your shoes. The Asset – I – know you. I know you.” Steve turns slowly, looking at Bucky with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You’re not just a mission. Your name is Steven Grant Rogers, and I _remember_ you.”

“Bucky?” Steve says, the word hardly more than a breath on his lips.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky says, his mouth twisting into a rare, shy smile, the kind reserved only for Steve. The kind he hasn’t seen in years.

“Oh my God, Bucky,” Steve says. It’s _him._ Not the glassy-eyed, weapon-toting imitation. _Bucky_ is looking at him now, with wide eyes like he’s not sure where’s he been either. Neither of them speaks for a moment and then Steve launches himself at Bucky, ignoring the dizziness that surges up inside of him. All he can see – all he cares about – is Bucky. “It’s you,” Steve whispers against his neck. Bucky tenses for a moment, as if he’s afraid Steve will shatter in his grip, before pulling him close. “It’s you,” Steve says again, pulling back to study Bucky’s face closely. Ignoring any leftover instinct telling him not to, Steve pulls Bucky’s lips down to meet his. This time, there’s no hesitation. Bucky kisses Steve back without reservation, holding Steve’s face in his hands like he’s something precious. Steve moans as Bucky sucks on his bottom lip and drops his mouth to his neck. Bucky’s teeth graze his pulse point and Steve’s heart jumps. Steve winds his hands through Bucky’s long hair, his fingers clenching into fists when Bucky bites down harder. _Long hair: Good_ , Steve thinks deliriously. “It’s you,” Steve says again and again, as Bucky’s lips travel down his throat, until his collarbone is covered with fresh, pulsing bruises. Steve manages to shuck off his shirt, and Bucky quickly marks the pale skin there as well.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes against Steve’s mouth, bringing his lips back up to Steve’s. “The Asset - _I_ – ” he corrects himself firmly. “I remember…I remember this.”

“And this?” Steve asks, capturing Bucky’s mouth again. He runs his hands under Bucky’s shirt, remapping his the now-unfamiliar terrain of his chest. He’s so much bigger now, so much bigger than Steve remembers. His muscles are much more defined, standing out in sharp relief against the taut skin. But there are scars, too. Deep gouges where his skin has been torn open and stitched back together. Some of them are smaller, circular, and Steve feels his blood quicken as he recognizes them as bulletholes.

“You don’t remember those,” Bucky murmurs, lifting Steve up and rearranging the both of them so that they’re lying on the cot, with Steve on top Bucky.

“But I remember this,” Steve contradicts, pressing his palm against Bucky’s crotch, feeling the swell of his erection against his pants. Bucky hisses curses, his lips pressed to Steve’s skin, rolling his hips against Steve’s hand. “Can I?” Steve makes a point to stop, to make sure that Bucky is looking at him, really looking at him, when he answers.

And then finally: “Yes.”

“Let me,” Steve says, pulling Bucky’s shirt over his head and slowly working his way down every inch of his skin. He makes sure to pay close attention to the scars, running his tongue over the raised, puckered skin. Slowly, Steve strokes the bulge in Bucky’s pants, sucking on Bucky’s nipples until he moans.

“Steve, please,” Bucky groans low in his throat. “ _Please_.” Steve lifts his head to press an openmouthed kiss to Bucky’s lips, licking deep into his mouth. Bucky’s hips cant against Steve and he gasps as the fabric strokes over his own erection.

“Okay, first you gotta get outta those,” Steve orders, and it takes Bucky less than a second to comply. His cock strains against his stomach, already leaking precum. “God, Buck, you’re beautiful.” An old, familiar blush creeps up Bucky’s cheeks, flushing all the way down his body. Steve hums low in his chest, sucking down hard on Bucky’s neck and slowly starts jacking him off. Bucky gasps, his chest heaving and his hips bucking against Steve’s hand. Steve smiles against Bucky’s skin, rubbing his thumb over the cockhead, flitting over the slit, before he slides down and brings his mouth over Bucky’s cock. Never breaking eye contact, Steve licks a thick stripe from the base to tip, sucking hard. Bucky moans and Steve nearly chokes as his hips cant up, fucking into his throat.

“Steve – ” Bucky says urgently, all the blood draining out of his face. Steve holds up a hand.

“M’okay,” Steve insists. “You’re not hurting me. Just stay still, baby.” Bucky looks like he’s about to argue, but his words dissolve into broken-down sighs as Steve takes all of him at once, bobbing his head up and down, deep throating Bucky like he hasn’t since before he left for the war. Once he gets a good, fast rhythm, Steve starts _humming_ , and the sound Bucky makes in response goes straight to his own groin.

“Shit,” Bucky groans. “S-shit, Steve. F- _fuck_!” Steve has a moment to prepare, recognizing the hitch in Bucky’s voice before he comes. Steve swallows is all down neatly before bringing his head back up, licking the last of Bucky’s climax off of his lips.

“Remember that?” Steve asks in a low purr, pressing a kiss against Bucky’s slack mouth. “God, Bucky, I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Bucky mumbles, sounding spent. His eyes roam over Steve’s face, drinking him in, before they stray to his crotch, where Steve’s cock is still bulging in his boxers. “You…” he trails off, clenching his fists by his sides. He’s dying to touch Steve, to love him like he can barely remember doing, but he won’t let himself go that far. Too big a chance he’ll snap and hurt him. “Can I?” he asks, as if expecting Steve to say no. Steve nods without hesitation, slipping off his underwear, and Bucky slowly moves his flesh hand.

“Not that one,” Steve murmurs, reaching for Bucky’s bionic arm. Bucky stills, startled, but Steve gently places his metal hand against his cock. The cool metal feels different, but _good_ different, the ridges providing a different kind of sensation, massaging Steve’s dick gently enough to make him want to scream. Steve gasps as Bucky increases the pressure just slightly, keeping him off-balance as he fucks him over with his fist. It doesn’t take long for Steve to be teetering on the edge of his own orgasm, whispering Bucky’s name brokenly. “God, Bucky, please, don’t stop. So good, so _fucking_ good – ah ah _ah_ – ” Bucky strokes him through his orgasm, once, twice, three times more before all of Steve’s muscles relax at once and he slumps against him, laying his head against Bucky’s unfamiliar chest. “God, I love you,” Steve murmurs happily, feeling light enough to fly. That might just be his head spinning, though somehow Steve doubts it.

“I missed you,” Bucky says and Steve lifts his head to look him in the eye. Bucky is still Bucky, but there’s something hesitant there, like he’s afraid. “Missed you Stevie.” Steve could cry at the old nickname in Bucky’s mouth. “Stay here.” Steve doesn’t think he could move if his life depended on it – sex just after waking up from a four-day coma isn’t the brightest of ideas. He’s exhausted. Bucky vanishes into a side door that Steve recognizes as the tiny bathroom, and returns a moment later with a washcloth. Carefully, Bucky cleans the both of them up, not saying a word as he runs a damp cloth over every inch of Steve’s skin. They’ve bathed together before, even dabbled with shower sex, but this feels different, somehow infinitely more intimate. When he’s done, Bucky passes Steve a clean set of clothes, changing into a new shirt and pants himself. He must’ve been carrying them around with him this whole time. Steve wishes he’d known sooner; he’s been in the same outfit since this little adventure started, although a change of clothes hasn’t exactly been a priority when he’s got his amnesiac boyfriend to contend with.

“Bucky?” Steve says hesitantly when the silence becomes unbearable. “Bucky, please come here.” Bucky hesitates for a second, shuffling uncomfortably before coming back to sit beside Steve. “I’m sorry,” Steve says, afraid that all of this has been too much too fast. And the more he thinks about it, the more ashamed he feels – for Christ’s sake, Bucky had barely admitted that he remembered him and Steve was jumping his bones. Shit. But Bucky only blinks at him, looking confused. “I mean, I shouldn’t have – that was too much. You just – and I – and _we_ …I’m sorry,” Steve finishes lamely, looking down and feeling a blush creeping up his neck.

“No,” Bucky says, reaching for Steve’s face before stopping short. “ _No_ , Steve, it’s not you. Never you. I don’t remember – I don’t remember everything.”

“What do you remember?”

“You,” Bucky says quickly. “Mostly you. Taking care of you…um, everything we just did. I remember that too. People trying to hurt you.” Bucky’s mouth twists angrily and Steve places his hand over his.

“That about sums it up,” Steve says. “Add in the cops chasing us out of about every alley in Brooklyn, and you’ve about got our childhood.” Bucky doesn’t seem comforted by his words, the frown only deepening. He yanks his hand out from under Steve’s, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. Steve hates this. He wants Bucky to _touch_ him, and not just for sex. He misses all the casual touches – light brushes of Bucky’s fingers against his skin when no one was looking. Swiping his hair out of his face, tapping the back of his hand when they got into scrapes, casual embraces. _Holding hands_. Steve wants it all back, so badly. He feels starved and greedy all at the same time and feels shame flood his stomach again. He just got Bucky back; he should be grateful.

“It’s not enough,” Bucky says. “It’s not even _close_ to enough. I want all of it.”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your name. What is it?” Steve insists.

“Bucky. James. But you always call me Bucky. Taking care of you…it make me remember. But I also know what – what they did to me.” Bucky closes his eyes, his hands shaking just slightly, but enough to send rage spiraling through Steve’s blood like poison. “They…I’m valuable to them. I’m a _thing_ and you…” he trails off, looking at Steve with such helplessness that all he wants is to hold him close and make him believe that no one will ever hurt him again. “Steve. They’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care.” Bucky’s eyes fly wide and he looks scandalized, before looking away and studying his hands.

“Steve – ”

“Bucky, for the love of Christ. Stop. This isn’t about me. For the first time in your life, think about yourself before me. They want you. You, Buck. They don’t give a shit about me, and I am not letting them get you again.”

“But – ”

“ _I am not letting them get you again_ ,” Steve says as fiercely as he can. He doesn’t exactly cut an impressive figure, ninety pounds of asthma and lung problems. “This is about you. I love _you_ and guess what? I’m selfish. They don’t get you, not again. You are _mine_.” Bucky only stares, wide eyed.

“You what?” Bucky asks. “Even like this?” He raises his metal hand a little. “I’m not the same anymore, Stevie. I could hurt you.” Steve makes a small, aggravated noise and leans forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to Bucky’s lips. Bucky makes a small, breathy gasp against Steve’s mouth, and Steve pulls away, keeping their faces close.

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I could.” Steve rolls his eyes.

“Bucky, you barely knew who I was and you couldn’t hurt me.”

“But I _did_ ,” Bucky says, agonizing. “I didn’t recognize you the first time, and I almost killed you. And then I _pushed_ you. You were bleeding. You could’ve gotten a concussion, and then you got sick and – ”

“And we could spend the rest of our lives talking about all the ways I could hurt myself or die,” Steve cuts him off. Bucky huffs, but doesn’t object. “I’ve been dying since the day I was born. I’ll be dying for the rest of my life. But for right now, can we please just live?” Bucky doesn’t answer. “Just lie with me, Bucky. The world can wait one more night, but right now I’m tired and I just…I just want you. Please.” Bucky hesitates at first, before wrapping his hands around Steve’s narrow waist and laying him down on the cot. Steve tugs him down next to him, pressing against Bucky’s chest so that their foreheads are pressed together, sharing breath. Steve sighs, already half asleep when he feels Bucky put his arms around him and pull him close.

“I love you too,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s ear, so lightly Steve can’t be sure that the words aren’t a dream. “Always gonna love you, Stevie.” Steve hums happily, snuggling closer. For the first time since Bucky shipped out, he feels whole. And as Bucky’s heart beats under his head, Steve feels like he’s coming back to life.

* * *

 

They move the next morning. Bucky lets Steve stay awake this time, and they trek their way out of the city, weaving in and out of foot traffic and taking half a dozen buses until Steve’s feet feel like they’re about to fall off, not to mention that Bucky travels at an unflagging pace. He stops every once in a while, slowing up so that Steve can catch up, but Steve knows that he’s slowing him down. He’s so exhausted by the time they make it to the next safehouse – a small place in a smaller suburb – that he doesn’t even bother to eat before collapsing on the cot that’s waiting in the house for them.

That’s how it goes for over a week. Sometimes they talk after they get to the next location, but more often than not, Bucky forces Steve to eat something before they fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms. It’s not a permanent solution – it’s not even a plan, but it’s something. The days begin to blur together, but and the blissful, light hearted happiness begins to fade, as Steve realizes how much ground they’re losing.

One morning, he wakes with Bucky’s hands stroking his skin. Specifically, the thin, fragile skin of his wrist.

“Please tell me you didn’t,” Bucky says, aghast. Steve doesn’t need to look to know what he’s referring to.

_Six months have gone by since he received the death notice. Six months since Steve’s life ended too. He doesn’t feel anything, not anymore. He used to think that not feeling anything would be better than the constant pain of Bucky’s loss, but he’s wrong. This is so, so much worse. He’s numb. Whole days go by without him noticing. Time doesn’t have any meaning, not anymore. His whole life has been reduced to a blurry haze of pre-programmed actions. Get up, eat, putter around an empty, soulless apartment, sleep. He used to visit his mother’s grave, but Sarah Rogers would hate to see her precious son like this. Steve stopped going months ago. He’s already said his goodbyes._

_All of them but the one that mattered, the one that he never thought he’d have to give. Bucky was never meat to die before Steve did. Steve was_ never _meant to live in a world without him, and yet here he is, going on while his heart has long since died. It isn’t fair that the rest of him has to suffer here without it. Without_ him _._

 _It doesn’t hurt. Steve thought it would hurt. But apart from the initial sting, he feels no pain, none at all. There’s something sticky sliding down the palms of his hands, making them slick, but Steve doesn’t look at them. He doesn’t think he’ll lose his nerve, not now, and he doesn’t think it’ll matter even if he does. So Steve just lies there, in the bed that they shared; the bed where they had their first kiss, the bed where they made love for the first time, the bed where Bucky first told Steve that he loves him. Loved him. Steve closes his eyes, feeling his breaths becoming shallower and shallower, until there’s only one left. Steve exhales deeply, relief flooding through his whole body as he finally loses consciousness._ I’m coming baby, _Steve thinks as he drifts off, peaceful as falling asleep._ I’ll be there soon _._

“Bucky, I – ” Steve says, wide awake in an instant. “I didn’t want to – ”

“Live anymore?” Bucky finishes in a broken whisper.

“Live without you,” Steve corrects, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. The day he’d woken up in the hospital, wrists bandaged and wrapped up tight had been the worst of his life. He thought that he was being robbed of his one chance to be with Bucky again. And his body, his stupid, traitorous body that has been trying to kill him since he first drew breath, well, the one time he wanted to go, it just wouldn’t let him. “Everything hurt, Bucky,” Steve says, tears breaking free and crawling down his face. “They sent me a letter, told me that you’d been killed in action and everything hurt. For months, I thought that the pain would kill me.” He inhales shakily, refusing to meet Bucky’s gaze. “And then it just sort of faded, and that was worse. That was like being dead, but still walkin’ around like…It was worse. I couldn’t – not without – I just - ” The half formed statement goes unfinished as Bucky’s lips crash over his, kissing him like he’s suffocating. Steve lets out a small, wrecked sob and Bucky kisses the tears off his cheeks, the indent in his chin, the corners of his still-leaking eyelids.

"Y’know what saved me?” Bucky says finally, holding Steve’s face in his hands. “When they…when they had me. D’you know what saved me? You, Stevie. They took – ” Bucky chokes, as if the memory burns on his tongue. “They took _everything_ from me, but they couldn’t take you. Not completely. You saved me, Stevie, you’re always savin’ me.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, ducking his head. “I’m sorry.” Bucky doesn’t speak for a long moment before bringing Steve’s scarred wrists to his lips and kissing the off-white scar tissues like Steve did last night. He runs his thumb under Steve’s eyes, swiping away the tears that have collected on his cheeks.

“Never,” Bucky says, his voice a low growl, tipping Steve’s chin up so that they’re eye-to-eye. “You will never have to feel that way again,” he promises. “I’m not going anywhere and I’m never going to leave you.” He pulls Steve against his chest, holding him close, but the roiling pit in Steve’s stomach only grows larger. _That’s the problem_ , he thinks miserably. _They’re coming for you and you won’t leave me, not even to save yourself._

They’ll catch up to them. HYDRA, the men in black, whoever is tailing them, they’ll catch up eventually. Steve is slowing Bucky down – they barely made it to the safehouse last night. Bucky won’t say anything, of course he won’t, but they’ll get run down and if that happens…Bucky will let them have him again if it means saving Steve. And they’ll use that against him. They’ll turn him back into that glassy-eyed predator, only this time they’ll do it right. _I won’t let them_ , Steve thinks, a half formed idea making its way through his mind. An idea that rips open the wounds in his chest that have just healed until they’re pulsing and raw. Steve bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, trying desperately to think of another way. But no matter how he twists and turns it in his mind, it’s the only thing that has a prayer of working. It’s just going to hurt. A lot.

They stay in the safehouse all day, just talking. Bucky doesn’t remember everything; there are gaps in his memory miles long, but Steve helps to fill them in. Maybe when this is all over, Bucky will go back to the old neighborhood. It will help, Steve thinks. One day.

“I love you,” Steve says, pressing his forehead against Bucky’s when they go to sleep that night. Bucky hums happily, and after several long minutes, his breathing evens out. Steve waits for almost an hour more, waiting for as long as he possibly can before slipping out of Bucky’s grip. His coat is lying beside them on the floor – since Bucky became more himself, he’s been wearing it less and less, preferring the simple gray t-shirt to the leftover HYDRA jacket. Bucky shifts a little in his sleep and Steve’s hand freezes halfway inside the inside pocket. But he only rolls over onto his side, mumbling something unintelligible, and Steve pulls out the syringe, filling it with over twice the dosage Bucky was giving him.

“I love you,” Steve whispers, sticking the needle into Bucky’s neck and pressing down the plunger. Bucky jerks awake instantly, grabbing Steve’s hand and ripping the syringe away, but it’s too late.

“Steve…?” Bucky slurs, the drug already knocking him out. “What are you – what are you…?”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Steve says. “They’re gonna use me against you, Buck, and I’m not letting that happen. You are my whole heart, and I can’t lose you again, not to them.”

“No – ” Bucky mumbles. “Why?”

“Because I’m selfish,” Steve says, digging his nails into his palms to keep the tears from spilling over. “And I love you, and your best shot is without me slowing you down. Get out of here. Go somewhere where they’ll never find you.” Steve nearly chokes at the betrayal and hurt that cross Bucky’s face right before his eyes flutter closed. “I love you, James Buchanan Barnes,” he whispers, ghosting his lips over Bucky’s. “Remember that.”

And then he’s gone.

Somehow, between sneaking onto buses and hitchhiking, Steve makes it all the way back to New York. The whole journey blends together over four days; four days where all he can see is Bucky’s face when he realized that Steve had stabbed him in the back. Steve nearly talks himself into going back, but it’s too dangerous, and odds are Bucky’s gone anyway. Steve can only hope that he’s not following him, but if that flash of anger and betrayal in his eyes was any indication, Bucky’s not coming back. Steve can’t blame him, but God _fucking_ dammit, it hurts. The only thing keeping him even relatively sane is the thought that now Bucky can be safe, and maybe, someday, they’ll be together again.

Steve makes it to the city, but not home. He’s not even _going_ home, just looking around for a place to crash. And as tempting as it is to head back to Brooklyn, Steve knows that it’s a stupid risk. He’ll find somewhere to stay, he always does. And besides, he’s small and sickly enough that no church would turn him away – covenant with the Lord to help the ill and all that. In the end, it doesn’t matter, because nowhere is home without Bucky there with him.

He should’ve seen them coming. That’s all he can think as suddenly Steve’s flanked by three men in all black. It’s a truly miserable day, one of the worst he’s seen. Cold and wet, just drizzling enough to make everything damp, but it’s not a bone-deep, cleansing rain. The weather matches his mood, and Steve is so wrapped up in his own unhappiness that it takes him a moment to realize that they’re tailing him – too long. He’s been on the lamb for over a month, on-edge and jumping at every sound. He should have noticed them sooner.

“You’ve been away from home a long time, Mr. Rogers,” a rough, grizzled voice says in his ear and Steve jumps without thinking, slamming his elbow into the man’s nose and making a break for it. Footsteps sound off behind him and Steve gets a grand total of three steps away before a three-pronged something is jabbed into the small of his back and the whole world goes sideways. Electricity arcs through his entire body, and Steve drops like a stone. He doesn’t know if he’s blacked out or not – everything is hazy, filtering in and out of his vision– but he can hear voices just above him. He’s on the ground, he realizes after a moment. He can feel the rough cobblestones on his cheek and filthy rainwater seeps into his half-open mouth.

“This is the guy?” one of the men asks, nudging Steve’s prone body with the toe of his boot. “The Asset managed to override its programming over _him_?” They’re talking about Bucky, Steve realizes numbly. His thoughts are sluggish and slow, like his brain isn’t working right. “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah but now we got ‘em both,” another voice says, and Steve lets out a strangled gasp. The men fall silent, and a shadow crosses over Steve’s face. One of the men kneels by his side.

“Don’ you worry now,” the first man says, patting Steve’s cheek. Steve wants to bite him, but there’s a weight on his chest and he can’t gets his arms to move. “You’re going to see your friend real soon.” Steve makes another cut-off noise, the tears he managed to hold off for so long finally spilling. He can hear the men laughing as the darkness finally claims him.

 _Bucky_ , he thinks as blackness closes in. _Oh God, I’m sorry_.

* * *

 

Steve wakes quickly as several hundred more volts of electricity shoot through his nervous system. His back arches instinctively, and he opens his mouth to scream, only to find it stuffed full. Steve chokes against the gag, tears springing to his eyes as the combination of panic and electric shock set his chest on fire. Within seconds of waking up, he already can’t breathe. Steve shouts against the cloth in his mouth, trying to communicate that he needs _air_. Ideally, he’d also like his inhaler and to have not been electrocuted in the first place, but right now he’ll settle for _getting the damn gag out of his mouth_. Finally someone gets the hint and the cloth is ripped out from between his teeth.

“Jesus, no one said he was defective,” someone says, sounding startled, but Steve pays him no mind. He’s too busy fighting against the ropes binding him, trying to get his head between his legs and _breathe_. Already, his breath is coming in short, panicked gasps, and he knows that he’s turning blue. “Fuck, what do we do?”

“We can’t just let him die – boss would be _pissed_.” Steve blocks them out, narrowing his focus to just inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Distantly, like it’s happening to someone else and not him, Steve feels the ties sever, feels himself toppling to the ground. He curls into the tiniest ball he can manage and finally – _finally_ – feels his lungs start to work properly again. Steve sighs with relief, his chest expanding normally, and he slowly manages to get onto his hands and knees, still coughing once or twice. He’s barely drawn a second breath when rough hands are manhandling him back into the chair. Steve grunts and tries to fight them off, but all it does is earn him an unforgiving punch to the gut. All the air he’s worked so hard to get into his lungs vanishes in a _whoosh_ , and Steve doubles over, wheezing.

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” a soft, accented voice says. Eyes closed, inhaling deeply through his mouth, Steve can recognize the gentle lilt of a German national. It doesn’t take long for him to make a connection, to realize who this man must be. HYDRA. Gritting his teeth, Steve launches himself at the man. He’s short, only a hair taller than Steve, though quite a bit wider.

“Where the hell is Bucky?” Steve shouts, managing to land one solid punch. He knocks the fat man to the ground and goes in for another before the men wrestle him back. “Tell me where he is!” Steve grunts as another fist strikes him in the abdomen, raising his arms to protect his face from the blows that follow. Blood stings his eyes from a cut on his forehead and Steve can feel seeping into his mouth, metallic and bitter.

“Enough!” a new voice says. Commanding. American. “Enough.” Steve cracks his eyes open to see a tall blonde man walking towards him. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Rogers,” he says graciously, holding his hand out to Steve. Steve glares at him in wordless contempt, struggling to his feet and obstinately ignoring the man’s hand. He’s shoved back into the chair as soon as he’s standing, the three men holding him firmly in place now that he’s proven he can both take a punch and deliver one.

"He hit me!” the fat German complains, holding his hand up to his bloodied nose.

“Oh, don’t complain, Armin,” the blond man admonishes lightly. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never been hit before.” He gives Steve a conspiratorial look that he doesn’t return. “My name is Alexander Pierce. Now, Mr. Rogers. Steve. May I call you Steve?”

“You can go to hell, you HYDRA piece of shit,” Steve snarls, spitting in his face. It’s mostly blood. One of the men cocks his fist but the American just raises a hand. He wipes away the bloody saliva and very calmly backhands Steve across the face. Steve gasps, more in shock than pain. “That all you got?” he demands through the blood pooling in his mouth, turning his head back to face the American. Pierce frowns, gesturing to someone out of Steve’s line of sight.

“Not hardly,” he says. “And before we begin, I feel that it’s only fair to warn you that this is going to be unpleasant.”

“Fuck you,” Steve snarls. This time Pierce doesn’t reply, and Steve wouldn’t have heard him even if he had. He’s too focused on the figure being wrestled into the room. “Bucky,” the word drops out of Steve’s mouth as his whole world grinds to a halt. Bucky’s struggling hard, but there are half a dozen man flanking him, each one holding a chain connected to what looks like a straightjacket made out of metal. Bucky’s eyes go wide when he sees Steve, fighting even harder against the men holding him. One of them yanks on the chain and he nearly goes to his knees. Steve cries out, trying to squirm away from the hands holding him in place, but they just grip tighter, digging unforgiving fingers into his skin. Steve can only watch as Bucky is frogmarched forward, not given any leeway whatsoever. But that’s not the worst of it.

Bucky’s gagged. Not with a strip of cloth, but with a black mask securely fastened over the bottom of his face. The sight of him like that, bound like a prisoner and silenced like an animal, it makes Steve want to scream.

“Let him go!” Steve shouts. “You _fucking_ bastard, let him – ” His words dissolve into nothingness as a fist finds its way into his stomach and Steve doubles over. He can distantly hear Bucky yelling something unintelligible and furious, but can’t make it out, too preoccupied with the pain in his abdomen.

“I want my Asset back,” Pierce says conversationally, “and unfortunately for the both of you, he belongs to you, Steve.”

“He doesn’t _belong_ to anyone,” Steve wheezes. Pierce ignores him.

“Let’s be perfectly clear,” Pierce goes on as if Steve hadn’t spoken. “There is no scenario where you make it out of this alive and the Asset isn’t returned to us, but _how_ is entirely up to you, Steve. The Asset will have no say, of course, because weapons do not get opinions, and it’s high time it remembered that. But, it is much more likely to resist if you’re still alive and encouraging rebellion, so that must be rectified.” Steve opens his mouth to shout obscenities at him, but a rough hand is clapped over his mouth, smothering the words. “Now. This can only go two ways. One: You recognize that your situation is hopeless and consent that the Asset should be returned to us. Then, it will be reprogrammed and you will be awarded a quick, painless death. Or, you do not consent and we will hurt you until you do, or you die. As before, the Asset will be reprogrammed and if you do survive, the Asset will kill you, slowly, and in every way it knows how. And Steve, it knows many.”

“Why?” Steve spits. “You’re going to hurt us anyway, why give me the choice?”

“Because,” Pierce says, an unpleasant smile turning his lips up at the corners, “you will never agree, and seeing us break you will break it. There is something very malleable about a broken spirit, Mr. Rogers.” Steve doesn’t look at him, he won’t give him the satisfaction, but instead locks eyes with Bucky. His heart clenches painfully. Bucky’s gray-blue eyes are wide and panicked, desperate.

 _Don’t do it_ , he tries to say.

Steve lowers his gaze. _I have to_. Pierce is right; neither of them are getting out of this, not alive or with their sanity intact. But Steve is going to fight. For as long as he can, for Bucky, he’s going to fight. He turns back to Pierce, fixing him with the coolest glare he can manage and settling back in the chair. In his peripheral, he can see Bucky closing his eyes.

“Excellent,” Pierce says. The lights behind him flicker on and Steve can see that his chair isn’t just a chair. Bucky makes a small, desperate noise when he sees it, flinching away. “It will be interesting, I think, to see if you come close to lasting as long as your friend did. Somehow I doubt it.” He claps his hands together and the machine whirls to whirring life. Something lowers, encircling his head until he can feel prongs pressing against his temples. “Oh, and Steve,” Pierce says over his shoulder as he walks away. “Try not to bite your tongue.” Steve opens his mouth to retort when the machine is switched on, and then his whole world begins and ends with the pain. It feels like someone is pressing the biggest sparkplugs in existence against his skull, pulsing electricity through his brain until it turns to pudding. His muscles clench all at once, locking him in place, and every nerve is screaming, like fire is dancing over every inch of his skin. He manages to retain consciousness for a few moments, before his thoughts fly and scatter altogether. Then he’s aware of nothing except for his own scream ringing in his ears.

When the machine is finally turned off – and it takes Steve a moment to recognize that it has been turned off – Pierce has returned. Steve inhales through his nose, gripping the arms of the chair in a pathetic attempt to steady himself. Not that it does much good – his whole body is trembling and his chest is strapped tight.

“What do you say?” he asks coolly, as if they’re discussing the sale of a car or one of Steve’s paintings.

“That all you got?” Steve pants, spitting the blood out of his mouth. He _did_ bite his tongue, although that hurt is nothing compared to the residual shocks shooting through his body. “I can do this all day.” Pierce frowns deeply.

“How about we up the settings, hm?” he says to whoever is operating the chair out of Steve’s line of sight. “I think Steve needs a little more incentive.” Steve tries to control his breathing as the machine lowers itself again, and keeps his mouth shut tight when it’s switched on. This time he doesn’t even have a moment of coherent thought before his consciousness is obliterated.

Time loses all sense of meaning – moments melt into hours, hours into days. Every time the machine stops, Pierce asks him the same question, but Steve quickly loses track of how many times he’s asked. He screams and begs for his life, but never once does he give Pierce the answer he wants. Steve can’t think, he can’t breathe, he only knows the pain as it crushes every bit of resistance he’s built up. All but one.

Bucky’s eyes never leave him. Never once, and it’s enough to keep Steve from giving him over to Pierce. Every time the machine is turned off, there’s a little less of him left, but none of him is letting Bucky go. Even when his voice gives out and he can’t even scream anymore, even when the last of his tears have dried and he’s little more than a husk, Steve won’t give him up.

“Enough of this!” Pierce shouts, somehow ripping through the haze that has descended over Steve’s mind. He wobbles uncertainly as he’s pitched forward, out of the chair, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He can’t move, let alone defend himself from the boot that strikes him in the abdomen. Steve heaves uselessly, wheezing as he’s kicked over and over and over. “You are a distraction,” Pierce hisses, yanking Steve’s head up by his hair and pressing a gun between his eyes. Somewhere deep in his mind, Steve registers the cool press of metal against his forehead but he isn’t present enough to do anything about it. Someone is yelling, but he can’t make out the words. It almost sounds like his name, but he can’t be sure. “A tiny, pathetic distraction. We are HYDRA, and we take what we want.” There’s a _click_ , and then Steve knows he hears his own name. His head is released and he crumples as a single shot rings out.

 _One_. Pain blooms in his chest, different than before. Somehow more concentrated. This pain wakes him up, but being awake it worse than the fog. Steve tastes metal on his tongue and when he forces his eyes open, there’s a red flower blooming on his chest. It soaks into the filthy, sweat-stained fabric of his shirt, sticking it to his clammy skin.

 _Two_. There are more voices than before. Steve can’t make any of them out, but booted feet are everywhere, rushing around him. Part of him hopes that they’ll crush him. One of them stops beside him and Steve hisses out an incoherent plea. The veins in his neck bulge with the strain. _“Get…Bucky…out.”_ There’s something wrong with his chest, and it’s not just his lungs this time. Breath is hard to come by, but not in the way he’s used to. Something’s ripped inside of him, all torn up. Something important, and the tear gets wider with every breath he takes.

 _Three_. A face. A voice. A cool, smooth touch. Bucky. Steve winces as a sob is ripped from his chest. Bucky’s still here. They didn’t get him. Steve didn’t let them. Somehow, he manages to wrap his hand around Bucky’s, pulling him close.

“Sweetheart, stay with me,” Bucky says, but his voice is far away. Something presses against the hurt in his chest and he gasps. “I know it hurts, baby, I know, but you’re gonna be okay. Stevie, you stay with me, you hear?” Steve wants to say yes, but it feels like a lie, and he can’t get his mouth to work anymore. “Steve – ” Bucky says urgently, but then he’s gone, wrestled away by men that Steve can’t see. His vision is spotty, invaded by darkness, and he can feel himself drifting. “Get away from him!” he faintly hears Bucky shout, as new hands grasp at his skin. Steve doesn’t want them. He wants Bucky. But he’s tired….he’s so tired. “This isn’t the end, you hear me!” _I hear you Buck_. “Steve!”

 _I love you too_.

* * *

 

The air reeks of antiseptic and Steve knows where he is without having to open his eyes. He’s been in more hospital rooms than he can remember. It’s all familiar, the faint pain of the IV in his arm, the _drip, drip_ , of the feed back, the steady pulse of machinery. But there’s something off about all of if, something _not right_.

And then Steve remembers. All at once, it hits him that he shouldn’t be alive. He’d spent days in the HYDRA facility, he’d been shot, Pierce had shot him and Bucky –

“Bucky!” Steve says, his voice barely more than a rasp. He tries to sit up but firm hands hold him down. He’s not alone. Slowly, fearing the worst, Steve turns his head, expecting some goon in all black. What he gets is a rather pretty woman sitting in the chair by his bed, a sheaf of papers in her hand and a shockingly red hat on her head.

“It’s alright,” she says softly, her voice carrying a definitive British lilt. “You’re safe now, Mr. Rogers. You’re safe.”

“Who – who are you?” Steve croaks.

“My name is Peggy Carter, and I’m with the SSR. I’m one of the good guys.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital in New York. Privately controlled. We’ve got security posted at all the entrances.” She stands, placing her hand over Steve’s, and though he has no reason to trust her, Steve can’t help but admit that she looks very kind. “You’ve been very brave, Mr. Rogers.”

“Steve,” he corrects. Peggy smiles.

“Steve.” Slowly, giving him time to rest and absorb the story, Peggy explains that she was part of a taskforce that found him in the HYDRA facility, one of the ones who rescued him. She explains that he’d been shot through the chest, and given everything else he’d endured, it’s a miracle that he’s still alive. “You’ve got one hell of a will to live,” she comments at one point. Steve doesn’t bother correcting her. Not a will to live. Someone to live for. But she won’t tell him where Bucky is, no matter how much he asks. She just says that he’s safe. Steve couldn’t give a shit about safe; he wants Bucky here, he wants him _now_. But Peggy isn’t to be rushed, insisting that Steve has to heal before they can “broach that particular matter.”

Days go by slowly, with only Peggy’s companionship to speed things along. Despite her infuriating unwillingness to give him any information about Bucky, Steve finds her to be a good companion. She’s smart and funny, quick to joke, and obviously very good at what she does. Although Steve isn’t exactly sure what it is that she does. At the moment it seems her job is keeping scrawny bullet-wound victims from opening their stiches. And she does it very well, even though Steve does curse her when she catches him trying to sneak out one night.

After about a week of nothing but bedrest, Peggy comes in with a pair of clothes that look to be Steve’s size.

“I think it’s high time for a walk, don’t you?” she says. Taking her outstretched arm, Steve allows himself to be led around the hospital, enjoying being able to stretch his legs. He makes it almost the whole way without his chest hurting. It’s not much, but it’s progress. Finally, they stop by the door to the lobby, and Peggy pushes the door open with a close-lipped smile. There aren’t many patrons seated there, just a few well-dressed women and a man in a suit with his hair pulled back in a low bun.

“Mr. Barnes, there’s someone here who’s very eager to see you.” Steve hears Peggy’s words, but they’re drowned out by his heart hammering as the man looks up. Bucky’s gray-blue eyes meet his and then Steve is moving, colliding with Bucky hard enough to make him wince. But Bucky’s arms are gentle around him and Steve feels tears wetting his cheeks.

“It’s you,” he whispers into Bucky’s jacket, over and over and over. “It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.”

“It’s me,” Bucky says, tipping Steve’s head up and pressing a feather-light kiss to his lips. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Steve’s so that his words are only for them. “I said till the end of the line, didn’t I?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [ tumblr](http://widowbitesandpumpkinspice.tumblr.com/)! It's basically a mess of writing, shitposting, and a fuckton of Marvel fangirling, so come on down :)


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